In the winter of 1995,
when I was 19 years old, I got a job with a company by the name of Dakota
Mechanical. We built slaughter-houses in the Midwest, mainly in Iowa. The
state of Iowa is the largest producer of pork in the nation. At the time I
was employed in that evil industry there were 27 slaughter-houses for pigs
alone. I helped build the IBP plant in Logansport, Indiana as well. It was a
brand new plant.

I never saw an animal murdered in the 9 or so months I
worked in Logansport, but it wasn't difficult for me to get the gist of what
many of those machines would do when in operation. I was primarily a
forklift operator to begin with, but then worked my way to industrial
plumber's apprentice. After that factory was built there was a three month
layoff.

But soon I got the call for the next job. The one that would
forever change my life. It was a smaller job; we were to build an extension
to the kill floor at the IBP plant in Perry, Iowa. In this fully functioning
slaughter-house I saw the most grizzly mechanized murders that there are to
witness. Since it was an old facility we were constantly called away from
our construction work to do maintenance throughout the plant. From the pen
runs, to the kill floor, to rendering, over the course of 5 months I was a
confederate and accomplice to it all.

When I first started the smells,
sights, and sounds were overbearing. I kept telling myself, 'This is what
you eat; don't get squeamish.' Within 6 to 8 weeks I felt soul dead. For 12
hours, sometimes 15, I often worked ankle deep in gore.

Like the 3 days I
worked plumbing rinse stations with 40 gallon drums of de-skinned hogs'
heads staring at me.

Or the times I would have to take the forklift
behind the facility to gather raw materials, right next to which was a 25
foot pile of 'defective' hogs which were 'unfit for human consumption.' For
one reason or another they were left in heaping piles, exposed to the
elements and freezing to death in the Iowa cold. With all the horrors to
which I was privy, it's that pile of freezing dead that still haunts my
soul.

Then came the day that changed me. We were wrapping up all our tools and
cleaning up when a hog who had been knocked out with an electric jolt, had
his throat stuck, and had been hung upside down to bleed to death woke up,
convulsed, and freed himself of the foot-hold. He came running off of the
kill floor straight toward me and the rest of the crew. Three IBP workers
gave chase. One with a pipe wrench and two with baseball bats. They began to
beat the hog to death. I turned away as I thought anyone would--I was wrong.
As I turned, I was face to face with the rest of my crew. While listening to
the thuds and squeals of a blunt force death a mere 30 feet behind me, I
watched as my co-workers whooped and cheered, high-fiving each other each
time there was a thud, laughing and celebrating the violent death of a
sentient being.

That night in my hotel room my mind raced. I was
disgusted with myself. I was disgusted with humanity. I quit eating meat. A
few days later my foreman approached me and asked if I need to borrow any
money. I said, 'No, why do you ask?' He said that he'd noticed that all I'd
been eating was peanut butter and jelly and that he thought I was broke. I
told him that I wasn't broke and that I was simply done eating meat. He
began heckling me and calling me a 'born-again tree hugger.' I quit on the
spot.

I went home and began to study Animal Rights. I went vegan and
became active in a legal capacity. I spent years tabling and talking with
people. I worked at animal sanctuaries and rescued animals whenever I could.

I have never felt that anything I have done or will do on behalf of our
Mother Earth and her animal nations has been enough. Those machines I built
back in 1996 are still murdering, even as I write this. That is my guilt and
my shame; I earned them. But it is also my strength and resolve. Nothing
will ever make me forget the plight of factory farmed animals and so-called
free range, which is just as sick, wrong, unnecessary, and indefensible.

Like all industries of animal exploitation, the circle of abuse will end
with the antagonist (humans) falling prey to its own perfidiousness. For
instance, my grandfather was a hog farmer whom I never met. He died in the
year of my birth, after the ammonia from hog waste destroyed his lungs. That
same waste run-off from his and adjoining hog farms in the 70's poisoned the
ground water, allowing illegal levels of radium to pollute the tap water. To
this day in certain areas of the Midwest you have to sign a waiver stating
that the water from public works is hazardous to your health and that you
are 'OK' with that before they will turn your water on.

I've said it
before, but it's worth restating. It is these industries of death that are
the animal and Earth terrorists. Not those who fight against them.

As of August 10, 2010, Walter Bond
is facing a single federal arson charge for his alleged role as an ALF
operative known as 'Lone Wolf'. 'Lone Wolf' took credit for three different
arsons throughout the Spring and Summer of 2010 in Denver and Salt Lake
City: The Skeepskin Factory, a store selling furs and pelts; Tandy Leather
Store; and Tiburon, a restaurant serving foie gras.

Walter's brother
alerted the FBI and the ATF about his suspicions that his brother, Walter,
was behind the attacks. While Walter was visiting Denver in July 2010, his
brother helped participate in a sting operation, allegedly wearing a wire
and helping procure audio evidence against Walter. He was arrested in Denver
and is now being held in the Jefferson County Jail in Golden, Colorado
awaiting trial.

Walter has been a dedicated animal rights activist
and anarchist for several decades and has struggled for animal liberation
and against a deadly and genocidal culture of drug abuse in the United
States. Walter was the subject of a song by the vegan straight edge band
Earth Crisis. The band's song 'To Ashes' was inspired by Bond's 1998 prison
sentence for arson. Bond was convicted of burning down a meth lab owned by a
drug dealer who was selling to his brother (not the same brother as the
snitch).